“That kid just moved the goalposts,” I say.
“He’s not the only one,” she says.
“You’re going to bloody use that in a short story,” she says.
“Almost certainly,” I say.
I’m not sure exactly when it was I first thought of you. It was some time that summer, the one I wasted so brilliantly – swimming, liking girls from a safe distance and wishing I was Jairzinho. Somewhere else, across the sea, your mother was strolling down country roads, sitting dreaming by furze bushes, waiting for your song to arrive. When it came, she kept that song for ten years, then another ten, kept it for you. And